Tunnel

by Josh Anderson

“Och!” Kyle called out. “Stop right there . . . Listen, you can’t—I mean, the lady who set this up, she warned me about this. I’m serious!” He reached out to grab Ochoa by the shirt, but his friend stiff-armed him away forcefully. “Och, seriously, just—”

  Ochoa was in a trance. He started toward his mother, totally ignoring Kyle as he stepped out into the street.

  “Dammit, Ochoa!” Kyle shouted, as he walked to the edge of the sidewalk. He looked up into the air, out of moves. He didn’t know what to do. “Don’t fucking do it, man!”

  Ochoa was halfway across the street now. “Veronica Ochoa,” he called out. The young woman stopped and turned to him. In the light of the apartment building entrance, Kyle could see the resemblance.

  Kyle felt a sense of panic rush over him as he stepped into the street to follow Ochoa. He nearly got hit by a taxi, and was forced to step back and watch from a distance. The light had changed and cars were whizzing by now. Ochoa was approaching his mother, and Kyle stared back at the traffic light, waiting for it to turn red. His new plan was to run full speed at Och and tackle him. The light seemed to stay green forever, and Ochoa was now just a few steps from the stroller. Just as he glanced down at the baby inside, Ochoa suddenly raised his hands to his ears as if he were in great pain.

  It was then that Kyle noticed a blond woman about thirty yards down the street from them. She wore a dark baseball cap, and seemed to be as fixed on Ochoa and his mother as Kyle was.

  As he watched Ochoa bend down in agony, clutching his head, he saw the woman pull out a gun and aim it toward them. Veronica didn’t see her, but started to back away from Trevor as his screams filled the street. Kyle cringed seeing his best friend in so much pain.

  The light turned red and Kyle began to run toward Ochoa, “No!” he screamed at the woman with the gun. She looked in his direction, and lowered her weapon, appearing indecisive for a moment.

  Just as Kyle was about to reach him, Ochoa’s head blew apart like a watermelon that had been hit by a baseball bat. Kyle screamed.

  He quickly glanced at the woman with the gun, but she was already running the other way down the street. She definitely hadn’t shot Ochoa. It would’ve taken a powerful shotgun to do that to his head.

  Kyle knelt down next to Ochoa’s body, his head reduced to a pile of skin and brains. For a moment, Kyle was transported back into the front seat of Joe’s Audi, staring at the mangled head of his best friend.

  Meanwhile, Veronica had quickly rushed little Ochoa into their apartment, probably thinking she’d just witnessed a shooting.

  Kyle pounded Ochoa’s chest. “Dammit!” he shouted. “Shit, Ochoa. Why couldn’t you just listen . . . ?” His voice trailed off and Kyle cried for a moment. The emotion of the whole journey flowed out of him. Everything had been tactical to this point and Kyle had been distracted from the significance of what he was embarking on.

  He thought about whether there was any way to fix this. What if I drag him back to 2016? Kyle wondered. He pulled out the silk blot and tried to stuffing Ochoa’s hand inside. The silk blot reacted differently now. The material held firm, instead of swallowing his hand like before. He thought back to his conversation with Myrna, and remembered she said he had to enter and exit the silk blot in the same place. There was no way he was getting Ochoa back to the unfinished prison building. How can I make this okay? he thought, panicking. What can I do?

  When the sirens began, Kyle stood up. He had no identification. If he was there when the cops came, all bets were off. He could spend the next forty-eight hours in police custody if they thought he had something to do with Ochoa’s death. Then he’d never stop the crash, or make it back to 2016. He quickly assessed that the best chance to save the lives of the kids on the bus, and for all he knew, maybe even Ochoa’s, was to leave right away. He bent down once more to put Ochoa’s hands gently across his chest. Then Kyle ran in the direction of the subway station.

  CHAPTER 10

  February 3 & 4, 1998

  * * *

  Moments later

  Kyle ran for as long as he could before slowing down to a fast walk on 181st Street. He was about two short blocks from the train and felt like his chest was going to implode if he didn’t take a break. He also desperately needed replacements for his old, prison-issued canvas slippers.

  The image of Ochoa’s head blowing apart, clear off his neck, kept running through Kyle’s head. If he failed to stop the bus crash now, Ochoa would have died for nothing. He had to try to think of something else—anything at all.

  “Hey!” a voice called out behind him.

  Instinctively, Kyle turned. It was the chatty waitress standing in front of Salvado’s, the restaurant he’d eaten at with Ochoa just a couple of hours ago. She was smoking a cigarette while she read a magazine.

  “You’re still dressed like some kind of mental patient,” she called out.

  Kyle turned and gave her a polite smile, but he didn’t stop. In another time, in another universe, he would’ve been all over the opportunity to talk to her. She was the kind of girl he always liked—soft looking with a mischievous streak.

  Having caught his breath, he started jogging in the direction of the train station.

  A few seconds later, he heard footsteps closing in on him, and then a hand on his shoulder. He knew it was her. “Hey! You’re rude, you know that?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, irritated that he had to stop again. “Look, I’m in a hurry.”

  “Where ya goin’?” she asked.

  “I gotta catch the train.”

  “Downtown?” she asked. “I just heard one pass. So you’re looking at another twenty minutes. Don’t bother hustling.”

  “Thanks,” he said, still not stopping.

  “Where’s your buddy, the Sasquatch?” she asked.

  Kyle stopped and took a breath. “Don’t call him that.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “Uh . . . Sorry.”

  He felt a hitch on the inside. If he let himself, he would start sobbing right here. “He’s somewhere good, I hope.”

  “Okay, weirdo,” she answered.

  “Have a good night,” Kyle said, starting toward the train again.

  “Hey, wait up,” she said. “Lemme get my jacket. I’m going that way too.” She ran in the direction of the restaurant.

  Kyle thought about ignoring her, but if she was right about the train time, then he was just going to see her up on the tracks again anyway. She went inside the restaurant and was out again within thirty seconds.

  “Haha,” she said. “Good luck finishing service without a waitress!” She laughed to herself and then screamed out “ASSHOLES!” to punctuate the laughter.

  “So, what are you in such a hurry for?” she asked. She shrugged when he ignored the question.

  “You remember my name?” she asked, tucking her arm under his. “Allaire Thompson . . . ”

  He liked watching her lips move, and imagined kissing them. He didn’t need a distraction like this right now, but he couldn’t help himself. “I’m Kyle Cash.”

  “So, are we, uh, gonna hang out, or what?” she asked.

  “I can’t,” Kyle answered, wishing he’d met her under different circumstances. “I need to catch a bus upstate.”

  “Back to prison?” she laughed.

  Kyle was tongue-tied for a minute. “No!” was all he could manage in response.

  “Sorry, but the outfit . . . ” she said again, letting him off the hook with a laugh. She carried herself as confidently as anyone he’d ever met. His buddy Joe Stropoli would have described her as “mint.” She had shoulder length blond hair, with pieces that fell in front of her face sometimes. Just the way she softly blew the strands away was sexy. Kyle found it distracting to be near her, and he couldn’t help but try to glance at her chest, or steal a look at her butt. He could only imagine how amazing she’d look in a bathing suit . . . or less.

  They reached the subway turnstile and Allaire pulled out her Metrocard. Ky
le pulled a twenty from the envelope Myrna had given him. She swiped herself through.

  Kyle saw the token booth was empty and there was no Metrocard vending machine.

  “This time of night,” Allaire called out, “you gotta have your fare ready, Kyle Cash. C’mon, I’ll swipe you through.”

  Kyle shrugged and walked to the turnstile.

  “Know what? Keep it,” she said.

  Kyle considered declining her offer, but swiped himself through and pocketed the fare card.

  Kyle stood up as the train approached 42nd Street. He’d let her do most of the talking on the train, since he wasn’t about to reveal why he was here. It was the first time he’d had a conversation with a girl his own age since before the bus crash. Not being able to speak about what had just happened to Ochoa forced him to draw his mind away from his grief.

  “I’ve never been to Flemming,” she said, standing up with him, grabbing his arm for balance.

  Kyle breathed deeply. He looked at her and couldn’t believe he had to find a way to ditch her. “It was great meeting you,” he said. “But . . . ”

  “This is what happens every time,” she said. “Am I dumb? Do I have bad breath? Is it my teeth? I know they’re a little crooked.”

  “You’re perfect,” Kyle said. And he meant it. “I just have some pretty heavy stuff to do when I get upstate . . . It’s been great talking—”

  “—Don’t you want to get to the part where we stop talking?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

  Most of the off-the-charts hot girls he’d known tended to play it coy. Kyle was more of a “friend zone” candidate to the Allaires of the world—the stoner nice guy. She wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met. It was as if there was nothing she wouldn’t say if it came into her head, and because of that, he felt his guard lowering, something he knew he couldn’t allow to go too far.

  Everything that had gone wrong so far had been the result of Ochoa sneaking into the time tunnel. But, if Kyle let Allaire get on the bus with him, he would be intentionally going against what Myrna had told him to do. He could feel himself wavering already. He was afraid he’d tell Allaire everything if they spent enough time together. She was the kind of girl who made you forget which was left, and which was right.

  “Okay, but once we get to Flemming . . . ” he started.

  Allaire contorted her face. “Okay,” she said, imitating him in a nerdy voice, “but once we get to Flemming . . . ”

  “I guess we’re doing this,” Kyle said as the train door opened.

  Allaire stood on her tip toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Damn right we are.”

  CHAPTER 11

  February 4, 1998

  * * *

  The next morning

  Kyle opened his eyes when he felt Allaire poking his ribs.

  The sun was starting to come up just as the bus pulled into Flemming station, a converted barn that was one of the small town’s most iconic sites.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I must’ve passed out. How long was I asleep?”

  “About an hour, but it was nice,” she said. “I was just watching you. You’re a peaceful sleeper, Kyle Cash.” It was jarring that she seemed so invested in him already, but he also loved the way it felt when she was affectionate. “And this new outfit is hot!” she said, of the Polo shirt, Hilfiger jeans and steel-toed Dr. Martens she’d picked out for him during a midnight blitz through Times Square on their way to the Port Authority bus terminal. He’d also gotten himself a two layer, waterproof Columbia jacket, the warmest he could find to combat the freezing temperature.

  During the long ride, he had been tempted to share everything with her—the burden of what he’d done to land in prison and the chance to fix things by traveling through time, but he hadn’t. Instead, he learned about her life—alcoholic, out-of-the-picture mom, doctor father residing on a tall pedestal in her heart. She was taking some time off from school, living with friends and working as a waitress to support herself. He wasn’t sure where taking a four-and-a-half hour bus ride with a stranger fit into her plans, but he’d enjoyed the company.

  They exited the bus onto the station’s rocky parking lot and Kyle knew it was time to really say “goodbye.”

  “So what’s your plan now?” he asked.

  She smiled shyly at him and he could tell that she was hurt. They’d made out a little bit on the bus, and she’d definitely opened up to him. Kyle wished he could offer her something more than “goodbye.” He didn’t want to part ways either.

  “Let me come with you,” she said, as if the idea had just struck her in that very moment. “Introduce me to your family.”

  “Let me buy your ticket back,” Kyle said.

  “I don’t need you to buy me off,” she said, blowing her bangs out of her face in a way that made Kyle want to pull her against his body. “Just tell me when I can see you again.”

  He looked at the ground. “I don’t know. There’s a lot you don’t—”

  She put her hands on his cheeks. “This, right here, you and me? This feels right, doesn’t it? And we can’t ignore that. The universe doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “We just met,” Kyle said. “You’re great, but—”

  “Exactly! We just met, and already it’s, like, amazing. And, I think you know too. There’s no such thing as a coincidence, Kyle Cash. If I know anything, it’s that.”

  He hated the look on her face right now. How could she be so self-confident, but also so vulnerable? Also, crazy as it was, why did he feel like she was right?

  He tapped his pants pocket. “I have your number. I’ll call you the next time I’m in the city.” He knew it was a lame response.

  She shook her head slowly, as if she had some special insight that he didn’t, but was going to let him do it his way. With a peck on the lips, she turned and headed inside toward the ticket window. Kyle set off on foot in the direction of Crespi Memorial Hospital.

  As a young kid, Kyle used to quiz his mother endlessly about his father. It wasn’t until he was a teenager that he realized how painful it must have been for her—having to recall tiny details to share with her son about the man who left them high and dry. He knew, for instance, that Sillow had worked as an orderly in the cardiac ward at Crespi Memorial Hospital before running off to Florida with his new family.

  Kyle felt nervous as he took the elevator up to the fourth floor’s cardiac wing. What could he possibly tell his father to make him believe? Myrna had told him to share as little as possible. But what could he say to compel a man who’d never bothered with him at all to take action sixteen years from now?

  Kyle sat down in the family waiting area and picked up a magazine, pretending to read. It was almost an hour before he heard the pretty receptionist speaking to a man pushing a cart with various tubes and tools on it. He stopped by her counter to talk. “Shave duty, eh, Sillow?” she asked him.

  Kyle’s father wore dark blue scrubs from head to toe. He leaned over the high counter and moved his face close to hers. “Closest shave since Jack the Ripper, at your service,” he answered with a laugh. “Y’know, some of these guys I shave, I think to myself ‘you ain’t gettin’ out of here too soon, buddy.’ But, y’know, these old-timers, they want what they want.”

  The receptionist laughed politely, as if they’d had this exchange a thousand times before. “You just be careful with those sharp objects now, ya hear?”

  “Always, Wanda, Always,” he said, and then lowering his voice: “I may have a sharp object for you if you’re interested.”

  Wanda laughed, “You are bad!”

  Kyle’s heart pounded at the sight of his father. He opened his mouth to call out to him, but before he could, Sillow went through a double door labeled “NO ADMITTANCE.”

  It was nearly an hour before Kyle saw Sillow again. This time, he was talking to another male employee. He passed through one set of doors, and was about to go through another when Kyle called out his name.

  Sillow turned and loo
ked at him, cocking an eyebrow. “Yeah? You got a relative in here?”

  “No, I uh . . . I was hoping I could buy you lunch,” Kyle said. “There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

  “Huh?” Sillow asked, cocking his brow.

  “Anywhere you’d like,” Kyle said.

  “What do you want to do that for?” Sillow asked. “I don’t even know you.”

  “I need to talk to you,” Kyle answered.

  “Go ‘head then,” Sillow answered.

  “It’s probably better if we talk in private,” Kyle answered.

  Sillow cracked a smile, and looked around, as if someone was putting him on. “I don’t know what the hell your deal is, kid, but if you ain’t a guest of the hospital, you best get the hell out of here right now.”

  Kyle tried to think quickly. He leaned in and put on a deadly serious face. “You really don’t want me to say what I have to say with all of your coworkers around,” he said, hoping to appeal to Sillow’s sense of pride.

  “Oh, okay, I think I know what this is about,” Sillow said. Kyle wondered if there was some way Sillow did know. Sillow stepped back and looked up, as if were considering something. “You wanna buy me lunch? Sure, alright. Sizzler down the street. I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes.”

  Kyle stood outside of Sizzler, again trying to push the image of Ochoa’s final moments out of his head. He only had a little more than twenty-four hours left to make it back to the construction site in Manhattan before the silk blot closed. Plenty of time if he could make a convincing case to his father.

  Just as he began to wonder whether Sillow might not show up, he saw him headed his way. Sillow flicked his cigarette into the bushes lining the restaurant and moved quickly toward Kyle. Without a word, Sillow grabbed him by the throat, and pushed him back against the brick wall of the restaurant.

  “You come see me at work!” he said angrily. “At work? How you think I’m ever gonna settle up if I can’t earn a living?”